Like a Feather
by Ray-ell
Summary: Comfort comes on a desperate late night when Shiro's hit his limit.


It was always dark. In space, there wasn't a night and day, at least not like on Earth. Sure, the numbers passed on screens and time trekked on, but nothing around them changed. There were no sun streams beaming through the windows, no glow against the grass as the moon rose in the sky—just the perpetual flicker of endless stars amongst an even greater endless blackness. Shiro thought it was a beautiful escape at first, but now the darkness wrapped around his mind like a trap.

The only thing that separated the night from the day was the silence that settled over the castle when everyone fell asleep. Shiro always made sure there were no stray footsteps wandering the halls before he went to his room; he always made sure he was the last to rest.

He leaned against his wall as the swoosh of his door echoed in his room. His shoulders rose and his chest drew tighter with each breath. He pressed his good hand against his eye.

A flash of the training mishap whipped across his mind again. Shiro gritted his teeth. He always tried to cover up his freeze-ups as best he could, but sometimes the resemblences were too striking for him to keep on. That was the case with the air-spin kick the training dummy pulled on Keith and him today.

He didn't even know why it froze him up this time. At least not clearly. He remembered a similar figure launching the same attack in the gladiator ring, but he could only catch blurs of color in his memory. He couldn't remember why it upset him so much, but he hadn't been this unsettled in a long while.

It bothered him that he didn't fully remember the actions behind the trigger. Hell, it bothered him that he didn't fully remember in general, but he could usually keep his frustrations at a simmer. Tonight, however, his desperation was threatening to boil over.

Sweat ran down Shiro's temple. He stumbled towards the bathroom, squinting when the white lights struck his eyes. He clutched the sides of his sink. Sweat droplets splattered on the drain as he breathed. The edges of his view started to haze.

 _No, I am_ not _having a panic attack._ He meant his internal words as a silent demand, but he knew they were a plea. He was helpless against himself. There was nothing he could do to combat the reckless turmoil inside him.

Well, there was one thing.

Shiro's breathing slowed as his eyes trailed to the razor rested atop the mirror shelf. _One thing._ Guilt weighed down his heart as he recalled the scars on his remaining arm. _No…_ He'd been clean for 15 days. That was the longest he'd resisted. He couldn't ruin that.

Shiro's gaze refocused on the face reflected in the mirror behind the razor. An alien face, one painted with trauma and traced with stress. One he knew as his own, but only through deduction. His face didn't feel like his at all. _He_ didn't feel like _himself_ at all.

Another wave of panic swept over him. He leaned forward, squeezing his eyes shut, breathing rapidly as he begged for it to subside. When it finally receded, Shiro didn't need any more convincing.

He swallowed his regret as he raised his sleeve, his fingers wobbling as they pulled. He picked up the razor and poised it a millimeter above his skin. Tears dappled the faded slits he was about to cross over again for the umpteenth time. But just as he pressed the blade against his forearm, he heard the whoosh of his bedroom door.

Terror turned his bones to ice.

"Shiro?" Lance's voice was groggy. "Sorry to bother you, there's just this annoying beeping I keep hearing and I thought maybe you'd know what it—"

Shiro's lips moved against his will. "Why didn't you knock?" His voice reverberated through his room as a low grumble. Shock slugged from his core. _Why did I say that?_ He wanted to turn his head, to apologize, but it felt like his bones would break if he twitched.

"…Shiro? Are you okay?" Shiro heard Lance's feet shuffle towards him. His heart pummeled his ribcage. He needed to move. He needed to cover up what he was doing, or warn Lance away, but his body was frozen. "Shiro what are you…?"

Lance's voice trailed off as he stopped beside him. The heated blood rushing through Shiro finally thawed his limbs. He tossed the razor in the sink and squeezed the cut he'd formed. His breathing sped.

There was a crack in Lance's voice as he tried to speak, but nothing followed. Shiro's vision blurred as tears welled in his eyes. He stared at the ground. _Why isn't he saying anything?_ He imagined Lance's face twisted with anger and his fists clenched in fury, but when his eyes subconsciously flicked up what he saw was a face carved with worry and fingers slack with shock.

Their gazes locked. Lance's brow was creased above ocean eyes filled with more sorrow than Shiro had ever seen in them before. After he stared for what felt like eternity, the waves in Lance's eyes spilled onto his cheeks. Shiro remained silent as Lance wobbled to the mirror, opened it, and retrieved a cloth and bandage.

Lance put out his hand. "Can—can I see your arm?" he croaked. A cold calmness allowed Shiro to oblige. He watched as Lance dabbed away blood and pressed the bandage onto his wound, then gently rolled down his sleeve.

"… Thank you…" Shiro managed to rasp. Lance shook his head, then sauntered out of the bathroom and into the middle of the room. Shiro lowered his arm as he watched the back of Lance's bowed head.

Silence suffocated the air for minutes before Lance sat down on Shiro's bed, his hands draped over his knees. The guilt Shiro swallowed earlier rose in his throat.

"Hey, Shiro?" Lance whispered. "Why didn't you tell anyone?" Lance's warm blue eyes peered up at him. Shiro's words caught in his throat, and when he tried to let them out, all that sounded was a strained sigh. Tears burned behind his eyes. He flicked off the bathroom light, drowning the room in darkness.

"Listen, I know you're the leader— _we_ know you're the leader," Lance continued, "but that doesn't mean you can't ask for help." Shiro bit his lip, trying to hold back tears, but he felt a few escape down his cheeks. "You know, we all assumed you were going through hell. I mean, you were a slave for a year, probably tortured, probably worse…" Lance cleared his throat. "We all knew you were hiding it, at least at first. But… after a while… Well, we thought maybe you were actually okay…" He heard Lance sniff. "But we never fucking asked, did we?" Lance's voice tightened until it broke.

Dread swept over Shiro. "It's not—it's not your fault," he croaked as he paced to his bedside. "These are my own actions, only I'm responsible for them—"

"BUT YOU'RE NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR _EVERYTHING._ " Lance's shout rang in Shiro's ears. "You always try to shoulder everything, but when will you realize that we're a _team_? And that being a team means _helping each other_?" Lance's words were severed with sobs. "Just… fuck… goddamnit…"

More tears rolled down Shiro's face, but he managed to stifle any sound. He shakily settled onto the bed next to Lance. He waited until his throat loosened to speak.

"Our focus is to save the universe." He took a deep breath. "In another situation, where we weren't existence's lifeline, I would've talked to someone." A lump pressed against his voice. "But… I couldn't afford to distract…" He tapered off when tears sprung into his eyes.

He saw Lance shift out of the corner of his view. "Shiro." Shiro turned and looked at Lance's tear-streamed face. "If me, or Hunk, or Pidge, or Keith, or Allura, or Coran were struggling with… this, would you tell them it wasn't worth distracting the rest of us?"

His voice cracked. "No, but you guys aren't—"

"I know, we're not the leader. We're not responsible for holding everyone together, or calming everyone down in times of crisis, or boosting morale in times of need. But Shiro—" Lance's eyes had a gravity that pulled Shiro into their orbit. "—have you ever realized that you aren't responsible for those things either? At least not on your own?"

Shiro stared at him. Something turned over in his heart: a new understanding, a realization, a renewal. Because no—he'd never thought that another person could bear the burdens he did. He's always felt that it was his duty, and his duty alone.

"You're not alone, Shiro," Lance murmured. And that was what popped the cap for him. That was what released all of the emotions he'd bottled since he'd escaped.

Shiro didn't even know he could wail like he did. The streams down his cheeks felt like rivers as he cried, at first into the air, and then into Lance's shoulder. His body convulsed with each sob, but with each sob came a release. He felt Lance's arms wrap around his back.

It felt like he stayed like that for hours, locked in an embrace, letting go of weights he never knew he could drop. When his cries began to taper off, his body felt like a feather wafting through the air. "Thank you," Shiro sighed into Lance after his sobs were reduced to sniffs.

"Always," Lance replied, giving him a tight squeeze before pulling back. Lance's eyes were red, but his lips were lifted. Shiro feebly smiled back.

"I feel… much better now. Better than I have in years," Shiro said. He looked at Lance, his heart light. "I understand now."

Lance's smile widened as he stood. "I'm glad." He giggled. "That was some cry, though. Don't forget to drink water, or you'll get dehydrated," he teased.

Shiro chuckled. "Don't worry, I will." Lance grinned, then turned to leave. "But hey, Lance—" Shiro said, warmth growing in his chest where tightness used to be. Lance stopped and turned back around. "—really, thank you."

"Like I said, always," Lance replied. He paused, peering down at Shiro with a solemn glint in his eye. "And that's not just me, either. Everyone in the castle—all of your friends—are here for you." Fondness softened Lance's face further.

"We love you, Shiro."


End file.
